Relief
by Runawaymetaphor
Summary: Only a month ago, his impulse would have been to stand- afford her some kind of respect or acknowledgment, whatever their surroundings. But here and now, he only stares at her. Silently daring her to tell him how much he's disappointed her.


**Relief**

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><p><strong>Author's note: <strong>_I'm not saying it's pretty or shiny, but someone had to write it._

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><p>When he wakes up, it's slowly, like everyday for the last three weeks. He doesn't have anywhere to be, anyone to see. There's nothing to partition one day from the next, let alone morning from afternoon.<p>

He finally sits up, his neck and lower back aching, though less than they did when the unforgiving mattress was new to him. He straightens, stretches slightly. Thinks groggily about continuing the letter to his father, even if it seems pointless now.

It's then that he sees her.

Janeway's standing several meters from the force field, and she's apparently dismissed the guards. She's staring at him hard, probably the same way she has been since before he woke up.

The idea would have given him a private pleasure, once upon a time, but now it only pains him. Angers him. Confuses him.

Has she come to check on the prisoner? Make sure the solitary confinement isn't driving him insane?

Maybe make sure that it is?

He expects her to turn wordlessly and leave, the way she likely came in. Anticipates that she'll spin around on her heel, coolly, and leave him to the rest of his thirty day confinement.

He's surprised when instead she drops the containment field, coming to stand just inside his cell.

Only a month ago, his impulse would have been to stand- afford her some kind of respect or acknowledgment, whatever their surroundings. But here and now, he only stares at her. Silently daring her to tell him how much he's disappointed her, to take on the criticisms of an Admiral who's now almost fifty years away at high warp.

He's surprised when she simply approaches where he sits, emotion pooling in her eyes. He peers into grey orbs that he once had trouble meeting, now locking onto them with seeming fearlessness.

Challenging her. Defying her. There's nothing left to lose, after all.

"I would have shot you down," she says, pain and anger swirling around her.

"I know," he acknowledges, not a trace of emotion in his voice.

They both fall silent again, and he studies her. Takes note of the bags underneath her eyes and the apparent weight loss. The hollowed out look that must be making Chakotay worry in his bed at night.

He's unprepared, however, for what he finds in her expression after he stares long enough. What he's seen flash across her face numerous times before, but always convinced himself that he was wrong about. Was too hopeful, plain delusional; told himself he'd just drank too much synthehol while playing pool with her, alone.

Alone with her in his cell, he can't deny the look on her face any longer. Can't block out the open desire in her eyes.

It's the same thing he thought he saw flash in her eyes when she tore the pip off his color. And for all his anger- for all the bile that crept up his throat then- he'd almost kissed her before being hauled off by the security detail.

It's an urge that horrified him at the time, promptly cast away when he got to the brig. But now it sticks to him, this desire to grab her, hold her. Feel her hair between his fingers.

As many false excuses as he's made over the years, the one he's likely made the most is 'I don't know how it happened.' It's the kind of phrase that's used so naturally to explain indiscretions; the cliché notion that one moment he was standing somewhere innocently and the next he was engaged in an amorous act.

Strange that for the very first time, he genuinely sees the truth in it now.

When he comes back to himself, his arms are around her, almost pulling her up and off her feet, and they're kissing frantically.

_They're kissing frantically._

It's such a strange thought to him, realizing that he's not only kissing Kathryn Janeway, but that she's returning it in equal measure.

Despite his delayed shock, he backs them up so that her back is against the wall, pinning her and lifting her in one motion. Her legs fly around his waist, anchoring them, and when he pulls his mouth away from hers he quickly feels teeth digging into the flesh of his neck.

It's all eerily silent, except for grunts and heavy breathing. In the back of his mind, he knows it's not just because of the location.

Pawing each others' clothes off isn't an elegant process. There are awkwardly moved limbs, negotiated positions, and they only remove as much clothing as necessary. Soon enough, however, her legs are wrapped around his waist again and her fingernails are digging into his shoulder.

He doesn't hesitate in sliding into her, but only because she doesn't give him a chance. And then her back is thumping against the wall, one off his hands eventually cupping the back of her head when she comes close to hitting it hard.

When she moves her head to kiss him, he feels droplets of moisture sprinkle across his chin and neck, and he worries that he's somehow hurting her. It's a few beats later that he realizes that the droplets aren't her tears. They're his own.

"I would have shot you down," she rasps, burying her face in his neck while he moves inside of her.

"I know," he gasps, the fingers wrapped around her head tightening .

She bites down again on the side of his neck and he feels his motions losing their rhythm. She clings to him only tighter, though whether to chase down the pleasure or to steel herself against it he'll never be able to say.

When it's over, he doesn't put her down immediately. Simply continuing to cradle her head for a moment as it now lulls back, supports her slight weight as she rests silently against him.

Eventually, he slides her to her feet, and she immediately begins to grabbing at their clothes. He has no idea if she told the guards to come back at a certain time, or if, for once her life out here, she managed to let the situation get away from her.

It's only when she begins to zip her jacket that she realizes she's missing two pips. One is by her foot, easily retrieved, but the other eludes her.

He finds it a moment later, all the way by his bunk, and, out of instinct, presses it to her collar.

She freezes at the motion, her face tightening in discomfort and her eyes locking with his.

He could take the opportunity to voice a biting comment or flip remark. Anything, really, that would hurt her. But instead he simply presses on the pip again gently, his finger gingerly grazing her neck as he regards her.

All the same emotions that welled within her when she first walked in are still there, in her eyes. But mixed in with the hurt and anger- the confusion and longing- is something else.

Relief.

"I'll see you on the bridge in a week, Captain," he says. His voice low, but otherwise ordinary. As though he were addressing her from the helm, her hand on his shoulder as she stood beside him.

She merely gives the ghost of a nod, eyes staying locked with his.

It isn't until she's gone that the guards come back, and as the security officers shuffle in, he perches slowly on the edge of his bunk.

Ensign Walters, one of the former Maquis who used to hate him, eyes him with compassion and concern.

"She give you the riot act?" the Ensign asks.

Tom wants to laugh, but knows the absurdity of all this is a private one. He buries his head hands as he remains sitting in the cell that will house him for another week.

"Something like that," the pilot says and the security officer looks at him with tempered sympathy.

Tom sits up, meeting his gaze.

"It'll all be fine," he

shrugs, strangely trying to reassure a man who once hated him. And about something he has no personal stake in. "Don't worry."

Walters' instinct at first is not to believe him, thinking Paris simply delusional or putting up a good front. He changes his mind when he sees the look on the blonde man's face. The expression that has been distorted with painful emotions for the last three weeks now appearing genuinely relieved.

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><p><em>I ask of thee, love, nothing but relief. <em>  
><em>Thou canst not bring the old days back again; <em>  
><em>For I was happy then, <em>  
><em>Not knowing heavenly joy, not knowing grief.<em>

- Mary Elizabeth Coleridge


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